Dominatus
by Andy Longwood
Summary: HP and X-men Evo. The Institute is no longer safe, and the X-Men are offered protection by people they never thought existed. Now Wizards are faced with the terrifying notion of muggles with powers--and the X-Men aren't the only mutants at Hogwarts . . .


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or X-men Evolution. I'm just not that lucky.   
  
A/n: Written in response to a plotbunny that just wouldn't leave me alone. Dedicated to my wonderful beta, psychicsaphie.  
  
Harry Potter/X-men Evolution. In the wake of a rash of mysterious mutant disappearances, the Institute becomes unsafe and the X-men are offered protection by people they never believed existed. Now wizards are suddenly faced with the terrifying notion of muggles with powers. And as it turns out, the X-men aren't the only mutants at Hogwarts . . . and Voldemort isn't going to let a little thing like Dumbledore stand between him and what he wants . . .  
  
Dominatus  
  
  
Chapter 1  
Requiem  
  
  
When it happened to Carmen Mirandez, it wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it wasn't very welcome either. She was aware of the worldwide anti-mutant hysteria that still gripped the populace, although she hadn't seen fit to participate in it herself. She didn't know any mutants, after all, and there were more important things for her to think about - like, say, _herself_. Or, more specifically, her voice, and the upcoming vocal competitions in her highly competitive performing arts school. For the opera-loving student, the idea of taking center-stage and winning a hefty scholarship to a prestigious performing arts college was simply too tantalizing, and with all the rehearsals to attend and practicing to do, Carmen didn't have time to think about mutants.   
  
Until she became one.  
  
Her mutation was a subtle event - so subtle, in fact, that she didn't even notice her enhanced ability for at least a month after it manifested itself. For a while, her ego had prevented her from believing that everyone gushed so profusely over her voice for any other reason than her own (admittedly prolific) talent, but eventually Carmen was forced to realize that it wasn't just because of her singing ability. The fact was that these days, when Carmen sang, people did exactly what she wanted them to do.  
  
And although it provided her with an easy ego boost, this was not a good thing for a competitive singer.  
  
To test her theory, she made a recording of herself, and played the song back on a pair of headphones. The moment the strains of Sebben Crudele flowed out of the small speakers, Carmen found herself floating peacefully, completely thoughtless, awaiting . . . suggestions, as it were, from an outside source as to what to do. It was so pleasant to lay there with her mind an absolute blank that she let the song continue. At that point, she couldn't have stopped the tape if she'd tried, anyway. The moment the song was over, though, Carmen was back, and very surprised.  
  
She tested herself a few more times on unsuspecting family members, feeling slight twinges of guilt at the way she was using them, and confirmed her suspicions. She couldn't quite get people to follow specific instructions, but she was able to alter their behavior and manipulate their emotions and attitudes as she wished with her songs. It seemed to her that they were reacting to her own desires. She supposed that when she listened to a recording she only got the part of her songs that made people susceptible to her wants, but you couldn't record desire on a machine, after all. So Carmen finally faced up to the fact that she must be a mutant. What other explanation was there for the way she influenced people's thoughts so completely with a few simple notes? What else could explain the way she projected her own wants or ideas onto her family; until her health-food loving mother was buying sugar-coated breakfast cereal without blinking an eye, and her sophisticated chocoholic sister was mixing stripes and plaids and idly slipping Carmen her brownies at dessert? Well, perhaps her family had simply turned very strange when Carmen wasn't paying attention, but still . . .  
  
So she was a mutant. She shrugged it off. It wasn't that big of a deal, because no one seemed to realize she was one. Her power was innocuous as long as she didn't use it too wildly, and if anyone found out, she could make them not care. Or possibly forget -- she didn't know. She hadn't tried erasing any memories.  
  
Unfortunately, with her new ability making use of itself every time she strung a few notes together, no one could criticize her singing. No one could offer suggestions of improvement; they were too busy reacting in exactly the way Carmen wanted them to react. In a way, it was lucky she realized it when she did, because the power was going straight to her head (and she was gaining weight from her extra desserts). Carmen had to admit that she liked it when people did what she wanted, but she was also a serious singer, and she wanted her voice to be evaluated on how it really sounded, not just how she wanted people to believe it sounded.  
  
But she couldn't stop it. Carmen was a singer for a reason, other than just that she was talented. She felt so strongly whenever she sang that she couldn't possibly curtail the emotion behind her notes. Singing was more than a pastime for Carmen, or just something she was good. It was a channel for the raw emotions she tended to bottle up, it was an outlet for her feelings, and every song she sang became a celebration of life, or a healing balm for her spirit, or a dirge of despair. Try as she might, Carmen couldn't stop the feelings she had when she sang, the emotions that flowed like water when she was putting her heart into every note . . . and if she wasn't doing that, then it wasn't worth singing at all.   
  
And Carmen wanted people to get as much joy from her singing as she did. She wanted people to appreciate her voice, wanted them to acknowledge that yes, there was something that chubby, plain Carmen Mirandez -- who was failing just about every class but Italian and music -- excelled at.  
  
And that was part of it. She wanted people to like her, and she wanted people to like her singing, but she wanted to excel, too. She didn't want to have to think that maybe she wasn't as good as they said, and that they only said it because she wanted them to. But even when she sang looking for criticism, she wanted to be told that she was good, wanted to hear that yes, her voice was amazing, and THEN have the critics give her a few things she might do to make it better.  
  
It was frustrating, to say the least.   
So she trained herself to throw off her own spells, listening to recordings of herself over and over until she could hear her real voice through the mist of blissful ignorance and then, eventually, throw the web of thoughtlessness it induced aside entirely. She became her worst (and only) critic, furiously picking her own clear, soprano voice apart in an attempt to eradicate any flatness or off-key notes. She continued to improve, but it was a slow process and she wished heartily for extra opinions.  
  
She was walking home from choral rehearsal one day when a soft whisper in an alley caught her attention. She paused for a moment, peering into the gloom, when suddenly a number of black cords whipped out of the darkness and fastened themselves around her wrists and ankles. She screamed as the cords jerked her off her feet and dragged her into the alley, where a group of people surrounded her and began pointing long, thin sticks directly at her. As Carmen's eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness in the alleyway, she saw that her assailants wore masks, and were dressed in long robes of black. Quickly she took a deep breath to steady herself and began to sing.  
  
The figures wavered uncertainly, lowering their sticks. A few meandered back towards the sidewalk slightly, and, encouraged, Carmen sang louder. One of the attackers bent down to untie her in a vague, lazy sort of way . . .  
  
Then one of them turned back, raising his stick in a slow, jerky way, plainly resisting Carmen's spell. In a strained voice he said "_Silencio_!" and to Carmen's surprise, her voice died away instantly. She opened her mouth wider and attempted to force another note out, but nothing happened. She was stricken dumb.  
  
She barely had time to register horror before another pointed his stick at her as well and muttered "Stupefy." There was a flash of red light . . .  
  
Then she was sitting on cold stone, her wrists freezing and in pain. She stared groggily at the stone floor as her mind lifted itself out of unconsciousness as if it were dragging itself out of a pool of molasses. She glanced at her hands, which were hanging above her head, and saw wide bands of blackened iron encircling her pudgy wrists, dangling from long, dark, heavy chains which were sunken into the stone wall. She yanked at one. Unsurprisingly, it did not budge.  
  
"Pitiful thing, isn't she, Master?" someone said, and Carmen looked up to the sound of the voice. A tall, pale man with cold eyes and sleek blonde hair was staring disapprovingly at her. Carmen quailed beneath his stare. She'd never seen anyone look at her like that, and it was chilling. "One would hardly expect she could do so much as convert oxygen into carbon dioxide."  
  
"Indeed," said a hissing voice from the shadows, as another man moved closer into the pale, sickly greenish light which illuminated the dungeon.  
  
Carmen felt sick.  
  
She'd thought the blonde man was frightening, but this . . ._thing_ was infinitely worse. She wasn't even sure it was a man. No man had ever looked so much like a snake, or had horrible red eyes full of so much evil that his gaze was almost painful, and no man had ever inspired so much horror in her just by his very presence.   
  
Was he a mutant? She wouldn't have been surprised if he was the one who had scared all the non-mutants into their sate of apprehension. He was worse than Magneto, and possibly even Apocalypse.  
  
"Have you observed her power?" the man asked, in a voice that was as snakelike as his appearance. The blonde man smiled a cold smile.  
  
"I believe you'll be very pleased with this one, master," the blonde man paused briefly, savoring his news. "Her ability is nearly identical to the Imperius curse."  
  
The strange words bounced around in Carmen's head as she pushed herself back against the wall, as far away from the snake man and his lackey as she could. The snake man smiled, a horrible, cold, mirthless smile, and glanced at Carmen again.  
  
"How is it activated?" he hissed.  
  
"Through song, but we believe a simple chant will suffice," the blonde man replied. "Her mutation is very recent, but her ability is effective."  
  
"How effective?" the snake man pried, now staring at Carmen with a cold, mirthless smile. Carmen moaned and shivered, but still made no noise.  
  
"MacNair had nearly untied her bonds before Avery was able to resist enough to silence her."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
The snake man stalked slowly towards Carmen, and she began to shake with fear. She tried to sing again, but nothing came out. The snake man noted her attempts to produce sound and smirked. He drew out a long stick similar to the ones the men in the alley had used on her, and pointed it at her throat. Carmen froze in terror.  
  
"_Finite incantatem_," the man hissed, and a strained, high sound filled the room. Carmen suddenly realized it was her own whimpering. But she had no time to be glad at the return of her precious voice before the snake man lowered his face to her own, and she shook like a caged animal, unable to tear her eyes away from his horrible gaze.   
  
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice conveying a cold, calculating interest. Carmen could only produce a terrified whimper. The man frowned slightly.  
  
"You will die tonight," he hissed softly, his voice hard as the iron that bound her wrists. "Very soon, in fact. It is your decision whether your death is quick and painless, or slow and unpleasant." He paused, allowing Carmen to register his words. "Now. What is your name? I like to know who my victims are."  
  
"C-carmen Mir-mirandez," she whispered, her voice shaking even more than she was.   
  
"A nice name," the snake man said, in an offhand sort of way. "Sing for me, Carmen Mirandez."  
  
Carmen stared. If there was anyone in the world who she never wanted to sing for in her life, it was this horrible man.  
  
"I'm not warmed up," she whispered, feeling pressed to answer. The snake man glared, and it almost caused Carmen physical pain.  
  
"Sing for me," he repeated. "My Death Eaters say you are good; I know you must derive pleasure from it. I am offering you one last chance to sing before I kill you." He smirked here. "If I were you, I would take it. It's the last enjoyment you will have in this life."  
  
Carmen nodded slowly, tears running down her cheeks. She wanted to scream, wanted to beg him to please not kill her, to please let her go, she'd do anything, but she was quite sure that if she did beg, the snake man would only find it amusing. He backed away, and she stood up and drew in a deep breath.  
  
A requiem, she thought, trying to still her constant shaking. A requiem would be appropriate.  
  
"Do not stand at my grave and weep," she sang, her voice soft and trembling at first, but picking up strength as she went. It was amazing . . . even in this place, with these people, song still had the power to make her feel hope. "I am not there, I do not sleep . . ." Her voice was in its full glory now, tears running down her cheeks as she tried with every fiber of her being to cast her spell on the blonde man and his terrible master. Behind the words she forced every iota of her desire to be set free, to be left unharmed, to return home and never see these men or this place again. Her voice rose in a crescendo.  
  
She was singing for her life.  
  
"Do not stand on my grave and cry," she went on, her voice dropping to a soft, quavering tone as she neared the end of the song. "I am not there, I did not die."  
  
She broke off on the last word, her heart pounding, staring expectantly at the snake man. His blonde lackey had disappeared halfway through the song, but still he remained, staring at her with an unfathomable gaze. She waited, considered starting again, praying to every god she'd ever sung about that her spell had worked . . .  
  
The snake man smiled his terrible, cold smile once again, and raised his wand.  
  
"Exceptionally lovely," he said, and pointed his wand at her. "But you were flat on the last note."  
  
The jet of green light that issued from the wand-tip was the last thing Carmen Mirandez ever saw.  
  
---  
A/n: My sources pertaining to the name of the requiem are conflicting. I believe that it is called "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep", and is by Mary Frye. If anyone knows better, please inform me.  
  
I do intend to continue with this, although probably not for a little while, until I've finished the TTT part of Just Call Me Mary Sue. Gives me time to brainstorm.  
  
Tell me what you think. 


End file.
